


Behind the Curtains

by TheMadKatter13



Series: Beneath It All [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Bombing, Bonding, Dildos, Established Relationship, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, M/M, Marking, Mating, Minor Character Death, Mounting, Mounting Unconscious Mate, Omega Verse, Omega!John, Possessive!Sherlock, Protective!Sherlock, Public Sex, Rope Bondage, Sex with Unconscious Consenting Partner, Shibari, The Great Game, Topping from the Bottom, Unconscious Sex, beta!Greg, bottom!John, injured!John, sorta - Freeform, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMadKatter13/pseuds/TheMadKatter13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the johnwantsit <a href="http://johnwantsit.tumblr.com/promptslist">Bottom!John Prompt List</a> (<b><a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/12JlfDdi9tYhKSVWJKpLfDcZw8akrP-T9dJe-dVBJ6uc/">65</a> <a href="http://prettyarbitrary.tumblr.com/">prettyarbitrary</a>:</b> Whenever they go out, Sherlock keeps omega!John in a rope harness with a big knotty dildo or something tied into it, because it protects him from other alphas by showing he's claimed and physically filling him so they can't fuck him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Curtains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/gifts).



> Additionally used the [Prompt List of Doom](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/pub?key=0AottGF403wBKdGZndU9IZFhnWjNicE1UQm5nRkVBUXc&output=html), and rolled **491:** arrival departure.
> 
> This was supposed to be pure smut. I don't even know what happened.
> 
> EDIT: [Chinese translation](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=5862&extra=page%3D1) now available, by [mizugane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizugane/pseuds/mizugane).

Very few things actually _scared_ Greg Lestrade. Just like everyone else, he had normal, everyday, not-quite-fears, things like 'My ex is in queue ahead of me and has now made eye contact' or 'Oh god I've missed two back-to-back calls from my hermit mother; did dad finally croak?' and even 'Shit, was that the last cup of coffee?' He also experienced a few not-quite-fears that not many others did, such as 'Not enough evidence' and 'Same M.O.' and even 'MYCROFT HOLMES CALLING'. But none of those things actually paralysed-him-to-the-bone, shut-down-his-brain, turned-his-blood-to-ice _scared_ him.

Still, when the ringtone identifying the British government woke him a short 63 minutes into sleep following several exhausting days filled with a pipping, pink phone and hostages in semtex, his heart gave a sick thump in his chest. Greg found himself blinking groggily at the rattling mobile on his bedside table, debating whether or not he should answer. Just as he reached an arm out from beneath the warm cocoon smelling of nothing but his own clean, beta scent, always a relief after spending so much time around others that reeked of fear or anger, the phone silenced and stilled. Breathing a sigh of contented relief, the beta curled back into his covers.

"Fuck oooooff," he mumbled grumpily when it went off again, yanking him sharply from the edge of Hypnos’s domain. Despite his curse, there was no hesitation this time in reaching for the happily jangling device. "What?" he growled, temper flaring.

 _”A bomb has been detonated.”_ The alpha's voice was as calm and controlled as it always was, and despite the chilling words, Greg felt the usual arousal pooling at the sound of it.

“Not my division,” he reminded, rolling onto his back to stretch. "Tell it to the Chief Superintendent." His brain had just had the most brilliant idea ('What would Mycroft do if he started masturbating to the sound of his voice?') when the voice in his ear spoke up again.

 _"I rather think you'll make an exception this once, Gregory."_ People had been calling Greg by his surname for so long that hearing the posh man using his full name was as arousing as hearing him speak in general. Then the next words he heard made him go soft so fast a switch may as well have been flicked. _"Sherlock and John were at the epicentre when the explosion occurred."_

He'd never gotten to a crime scene, a community health centre with an indoor pool, so fast. He credited Mycroft's surveillance and his phone call that Greg arrived almost before any of the emergency vehicles. As it was, standing at the edges of the rubble, the sounds of sirens in the distance, he felt lost, unsure of where to even start. What the hell were Sherlock and John even _doing_ around a bom--

A pink, pipping phone.

Hostages in semtex. 

_"But what was the point? Why would anyone_ do _that?"_

_"Oh, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored."_

_"He sounded so... soft."_ Click.

A bomb in an apartment building; twelve dead, including one elderly female omega in the remains of a tactical vest. 

What better way to get the genius's attention than to kidnap his mate?

"Oh my god," Greg whispered, despair sweeping over him. "SHERLOCK!" he shouted suddenly as he began his search through the wreckage, trying to see through the still-settling dust. "JOHN!" He hadn't really expected to be answered but he couldn't stop himself from calling for the two men, and again and again, as he picked through large chunks of rock and tile and plaster. He almost fell into the pool, shoe slipping on still-wet tile when he managed to put his foot in what he’d thought was a clear space. But as he jolted back up, he saw a dark mass of something decidedly _not_ part of the building across from him, the sounds of approaching emergency vehicles growing closer and closer.

"Sherlock!" he called scrambling around the edges of the still mostly-intact pool. As he got closer, he realised the alpha was sitting, back curved as he tended to something large in his lap. Something with a mop of ashen blonde hair.

"Sherlock!" he called again, now careful as he approached. John wasn't moving, and from this angle and this distance, he couldn't tell if the omega was still alive or even if he was in one piece. Either way, the doctor wasn't moving and in the detective inspector's vast array of experience, this meant that his alpha would be feral, calm at a distance, growling and snarling and attacking if anyone were to move closer. He could hear people around him and the dust had settled enough for him to see shadowy figures all around. Putting two fingers to his lips he whistled a single, piercing note.

"We need a medic over here!" he shouted. The beta took care to circle around Sherlock, knowing better than to try approaching him from any other direction but the front. "Sherlock?"

As he got closer, he realised the alpha was cross-legged, John's chest braced over his legs, the overall limpness of the smaller form no help as to whether he was alive and unconscious, or finitely dead. The omega's clothes were in were in tatters and the entire expanse of his back was bared, revealing angry, bloody burns that made Greg's stomach plummet. Sherlock’s hands were resting on his mate, one on John’s head, the other on the curve of an arse cheek, his head bowed like he couldn’t look away from the damage. And for some reason, both of them appeared drenched, water dripping heavily from both dark curls and light strands alike.

The alpha didn’t even look at Greg as he approached slowly, hearing the scrambling sounds of responders moving towards them growing louder as they neared. Cautiously, he crouched down in front of the two, exceedingly wary for an attack. “Sherlock?”

“Someone call for a medic?” The voice not far from him made him jump and he turned instinctively towards it before freezing, expecting to be attacked while his back was turned. He wasn’t. In fact, Sherlock hadn’t moved at all. In fact, he was as motionless as John.

“Right here!” he called back, standing and waving his arms. “And a stretcher!”

“Hank, Brian! Stretcher!” the apparent EMT shouted, arriving a few seconds later, closely followed by his two partners and a stretcher. Before anyone could speak, Sherlock was moving suddenly, hands now underneath John and standing with a grace that shouldn’t be possible in a situation like this, with an injured person in his arms. After the omega was lain flat, face down, they were moving without talking, concentrating too heavily on navigating the mess without dumbing their charge. All the while, Sherlock was a silent wraith, one hand grasping John’s hand tightly as he walked alongside.

As they finally settled into the ambulance, one medic departing to drive while the other two began diagnosing, Sherlock remained still and silent at his mate’s side, eyes never once leaving the smaller man. As Greg sat across from him, helpless and lost, he realised something rather heart-stopping.

Very few things actually _scared_ Greg Lestrade. What did scare him however, was a still and silent Sherlock Holmes. And it took him until the medics, betas, all of them, began removing John’s clothes that he became aware of the fact. Because he’d seen Sherlock violent. He’d seen him violent in chase of answers for a case, but he’d also seen him violent in protection of or in retribution for his mate. But now, when John had been hurt to a greater degree than ever before, possibly even more than when he’d been shot, the alpha was absolutely still as he kept staring at his mate, was absolutely still as he held his mate’s hand. It didn’t even look like he was breathing.

One the EMTs began to cut away John’s jeans as the other worked to divest him of the shirts he’d been wearing, both of them continuously shooting nervous, wary glances at Sherlock. The atmosphere in the small cab felt even smaller with the jaw-clenching tension of expecting an attack from an alpha mate. Once John was completely naked, his clothes were stored in a bag and Greg lost the battle to not look down. And he frowned in confusion. 

“What...” It looked like ropes were wrapped and knotted around John’s thighs and arse, and it was clear they went further up because they were right there on under chest when one of the medics shifted the man. And when the inspector looked closer, there were threads of rope around the back of John’s neck. Now that he knew they were there, the closer he looked at the wounds on the omega’s back, the clearer it became that there was some pattern where the wounds were lighter, like an extra layer preventing heat and fire from reaching skin.

There was a confused sound coming from one of the medics as the dark-skinned man reached for something Greg hadn’t seen before: a black circular bit at the bottom of John’s arse. Held in place with strands of rope. The inspector’s frowned deepened and he subconsciously leaned forward to get a better look. That looked like... The scissor-wielding beta was at it again, cutting away all the knots that could be found, easing the rope away from the omega’s unresponsive form. His eyes shot back to Sherlock as the material was stored in a separate bag than the clothes had been, and almost jumped when he realised silver eyes had shifted from the back of a blonde head to the black rubber circle. With a curious murmur, the medic reached out to touch the black disc, shouting in surprise and fear when long, pale fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Don’t. Touch,” Sherlock growled, voice thick, like he could barely speak. The trapped beta nodded his head frantically and Sherlock released him immediately, reaching out to flick a small switch on the base of the device that Greg hadn’t notice before. There was a quiet whimper from the omega that had all of them stilling before Sherlock leaned forward and began to whisper in the injured man’s ear, slowly pulling out an alpha-cock dildo. In that moment, he was quite sure the each beta’s face, including his own, was in flames at the casual way the glistening silicone was held in the air.

Being a beta, he didn’t have the same scent receptors that alphas and omegas did, but he could still tell what secondgender a person was, he could still smell if they were mated, he could still smell if they were in heat or rut. And depending on their proximity to him and the last time they had sex, he might could smell that too. When it came to Sherlock, and later, to John as well, he had done his best to just... not smell them. At all. Even still, he hadn’t been able to _not_ notice when they’d mated, less than a month into their flatshare. And he hadn’t been able to ignore the way that John always smelled like an omega in coitus. It had been confusing to say the least, but the last thing he was going to ask was ‘How?’ or ‘Why?’. Now though, staring at the toy, it all made sense.

The silicone smelled like Sherlock, it smelled _very_ strongly of Sherlock, and when Greg glanced down at where the ropes had been on John’s thighs, there were callouses all along their path, evidence of long-term use. He’d heard of very possessive alphas staking their claim in public, either with bites or intercourse, but this was new. This was very new. But even if Sherlock put that dildo inside his mate each time they left the flat, used ropes to keep it inside, used the fake knot to keep it inside, it still shouldn’t smell like John was being fucked. He should only smell that way with his mate’s cock up his ar-- He cut that line of thinking right off. He didn’t want to think about what his friends got up to in their private time, especially when he had a crush on one of their brothers.

In the next second, he realised that he had forgotten to take in one very key flaw in that plan: Sherlock himself.

While Greg and the other betas could only sit and watch, too afraid to move lest they get attacked, the alpha slid the dildo back in his mate... before pulling it right back out. Silver grey eyes were fixed on the bit of face turned towards him as he continued to fuck his omega with the dildo. Slowly. Right there in the ambulance while Greg and the EMTs watched. 

For all that the omega was unconscious, the scent of his arousal bloomed when the dildo was shifted minutely. The beta blinked, realising he had been staring at the push and pull of that silicone and he jerked his head up, finding that the alpha had leaned over again to lay his head next to John’s, staring at his unresponsive face as his long arm worked at bringing his mate pleasure. The omega was twitching now as the wrist controlling the dildo’s movements sped up, and even Greg could hear the change of even breathing becoming heavy pants, though John still remained unconscious.

It was barely a minute later that the omega began to make noises: whimpers and whines that seemed to come from the back of his throat. At the same time, his hips began to shift, minute motions restricted by the limpness of his legs. The sound of the silicone sliding in and out got wetter though, in a way that was impossible to ignore. Despite the omega’s injured state, it wasn’t preventing his body from responding to the ministration of his alpha, and Greg had no doubt that his cock was hard where it was pressed between his body and the stretcher. Sherlock just sat there, head on the pillow next to John’s, whispering under his breath as he fucked his mate until the smaller man came with a high whine. It was in that moment that the detective shoved the dildo in completely, flicking the switch on the bottom once. In response, the whine’s pitch heightened and the omega’s hips writhed near-frantically, though his upper body moved not one inch.

As John’s body stilled and his pants evened out, the smell of omega orgasm failed to fade, even in the slightest as one long-fingered hand clasped a thigh, and dark curls pressed against blonde tufts when Sherlock pressed their foreheads together. As his lips began to move, Greg had to look away because somehow, whatever was happening now, was infinitely more intimate than what he’d just seen. Neither John nor Sherlock moved for the rest of the ride, and the EMTs adjusted to the loss of space without a word, the looks on their faces making it clear that they didn’t dare ask the alpha to move after such a possessive display.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, a blanket was thrown over John’s arse (and the dildo still deep inside), and the omega was whisked away to surgery, leaving Greg alone with Sherlock. Who had reverted back to his state of absolute stillness and silence. He wasn’t sure what scared him more: finding an overdosed Sherlock, or watching this emotionless... machine in the face of such terrible injuries to his mate. This whole thing on top of such little sleep on top of such an exhausting grouping of days was wearing at him greatly and he plopped into a chair, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a presence sat down at his side.

Too tired to remove his hands from his eyes, the beta instead propped his elbows on his knees, turning his head to closely examine the alpha who was sitting back in the chair next to Greg, on leg crossed over the other at the knees. He’d never seen any alpha react anything like this in response to an attack on their omega. Not even the abusive ones who treated their mates like shit were this calm, this composed. Even those twats became feral, growling and snarling and refusing to be moved from their omega’s side, even if someone tried to explain to them that their instincts were more harmful than helpful. Even Sherlock, who seemed the epitome of control, should be exhibiting symptoms of an injured mate, but he showed none.

Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused and arms crossed over his chest. Greg recognised the sight of the detective in his mind palace, whatever that was. It had been years since he’d been told about it and he still didn’t really have a clue what it was. As he turned back forwards and waited for the reappearance of a doctor to tell them what was going on, to break the news on the extent of the damage, he pulled out his phone, blinking in surprise to find a message already waiting for him.

_Moriarty is confirmed dead. COD: Conflagration. -MH_

John had told him after the gallery what he could about the man, what they knew so far and what they suspected that he was guilty of. Sherlock had stood off to the side, humming and scoffing indiscriminately through his mate’s lecture, refusing to clarify or elaborate when he did. Snapping his phone closed, Greg shot another sidelong glance at the alpha. Should he tell him?

No. Sherlock was there. He would have seen. Or would he have? The alpha was still damp, drier than when Greg had first found him, but nowhere near actually dry. Which told the detective that the alpha had been in the pool. And as he was also uninjured. It was possible he hadn’t seen.

“Mycroft says Moriarty is confirmed dead.” Despite the low volume he spoke in, it was still strange to hear a sound other than that of the hospital around them. At his side, Sherlock didn’t speak, but he became stiffer, like he didn’t have a spine anymore but a metal rod in his back. And that’s when Greg saw the alpha’s silence and stillness for what it was: restraint. He finally saw the way the consulting detective was trembling as if he could barely hold himself together, his jaw clenched to keep himself from speaking. If the man didn’t have that kind of restraint, it was anyone’s guess as to how feral he would be right now. Sherlock was a possessive alpha through and through, and those types were always the hardest to control when feral. Even worse were the ones that loved their omegas. The deeper the love, the more extreme the feralness. Combine the two... Greg shuddered. He didn’t _want_ to imagine that. The violence those types were capable of when protecting their mates or exacting revenge was mind-boggling. 

When the doctor walked into the waiting room, looking up from his clipboard like a bad telly cliche, Sherlock was on his feet in a split second, striding past the beta purposefully and disappearing around a corner without a sound. The other man shot a confused look towards Greg who could only give a weak chuckle.

“Are you John’s doctor?” he asked, knowing that Sherlock would find his mate’s door no problem. It was unlikely the man would be able to listen to or understand any medical talk until he’d assured for himself that his omega was still breathing.

“Yes, are you his alpha?” the doctor adjusted his glasses before reaching out to shake the detective’s hand.

“That,” he said with a sharp nod of his head, “is John’s alpha. I’m just a family friend and a police officer,” he introduced, pulling out his badge for a quick flash. “How’s he doing?” The other beta hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder in the direction the alpha had gone before turning back and running a quick eye along Greg’s body. Coming to a decision, the man nodded, and then returned his sight to his clipboard.

“The patient has two fractured ribs, a broken wrist, a concussion, and extensive second degree burns across the entirety of his back.” Greg let out a muffled curse into the palm of his hand as he listened. “His fractures and his concussion are being monitored carefully, his wrist has been set in a cast, and his burns have been attended to. He will be in a great deal of pain when he awakes because as widespread as the burns are, they were not deep enough to kill his nerve endings. He will need to remain in the hospital for several weeks to recover fully.” He gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“Yeah, Sherlock will never go for that,” he muttered, unable to stop himself from scrubbing his face with his palm again. “All right. I’ll tell him. Thank you, doctor. Which room is he in?” After being pointed towards the correct room number, he nodded his thanks again before following after Sherlock. Despite being a beta, it ended up not being that difficult following the alpha’s potent scent as it wound through the corridors. He probably could have found John’s room with his eyes closed, it was so strong. The incident in the ambulance still fresh in his mind, Greg paused before entering the room, one hand planted on the door and eyes peeking through the small window. The sight that greeted his eyes made him glad he’d stopped.

John was on his belly on the bed, face turned away from the door, covered by a blanket from the waist down and covered in bandages from the waist up. Sherlock was standing at the foot of his bed, a dark wraith in his long coat and his raised collar, the diagnosis clipboard clenched so tightly in one hand that it turned his knuckles white. He looked so much more like an Angel of Death than Greg was comfortable thinking about. Sherlock had been in a bad place before John, and the chances of keeping him out of that bad place if he lost his mate were slim to none.

Sherlock stared at the paper in his hands for a long moment before slipping it back into it’s holder. For a long moment, the apha just stood there, staring down at the medical info he’d just put away. Then his gaze switched to his mate and he walked around the bed to the side John’s face would be visible. Greg noticed he was holding his breath but he couldn’t seem to get the message to his lungs to release it. Another minute later, the emotionless expression on Sherlock’s face suddenly crumpled and the despair that overcame it was enough to shock the voyeuring beta’s heart into skipping a beat. Jesus fuck this was private.This was more private than the claiming display in the ambulance, even more private than the near-cuddling after it. That was not an expression he was meant to see. That was not an expression anyone was meant to see. Before he could move, the alpha was climbing into the large bed and curling into as small a ball as he possibly could at his mate’s hip, one hand sliding under the blanket over John’s arse.

A loud clang from next door had Greg jerking back in surprise, his heart pounding unreasonably fast and his face flaming with embarrassment; he felt like a pervert. His eyes darted back to the door one more time, a reassurance that his friends were safe and alive before he turned and began to walk away. There was nothing he could do here. And the longer he went without sleep, the less useful he’d be as a human altogether. He doubted anyone at NSY would even end up getting involved in the crime scene anyway--once Mycroft got his hands on something, it was his. Greg promptly blamed his sleep-deprived mind for thinking that he’d rather like for Mycroft to get his hands on _him_ and lit a cigarette as soon as he was out the front door.

**.oOo.**

Even wrapped in yards of gauze, his mate looked so impossibly small in the hospital bed, and it made Sherlock’s eyes tight and his heart to jump up into his throat. It was his fault that John had been injured, and there was no one else to blame but himself. Well, technically, Moriarty was the one truly at fault as it had been him to kidnap the omega and put him in the semtex, but he never would have done that had the consulting detective not goaded him on in the first place. Or if he had never fallen in love with John.

He curled into a tighter ball, pressing his nose against the fabric of John’s hospital gown where it lay over his hips, the appendage wrinkling involuntarily at the strange scent of antiseptics and _not them_. It wasn’t just the antiseptics though: he could smell all those who’d touched John in surgery and in the ambulance and a few others that were likely from his earlier kidnapping; he could smell the chlorine from the pool it had all happened at; he could smell the dust and the smoke from the building’s collapse; and worse of all, he could smell the large dosage of Pentaerythritol tetranitrate that marked the semtex’s intended use as for ‘blasting’.

He squeezed his eyes shut but all he could see on the back of his eyelids was John’s mouth open in a shout, running at him in slow motion, the vest starting to detonate behind him. His eyes snapped open but he couldn’t stop the memory from playing in his mind. The feel of John’s body slamming into his, their fall into the pool, the sight of Moriarty, standing right above the jacket, being torn into pieces by the explosion. John weighing him down as chunks of stone from the roof fell all around them, lungs tested to capacity, trying to stay submerged until the flames and destruction settled. Something heavy had hit John, and after that, the arms around him had loosened and they’d begun to sink faster, and it wasn’t until that moment that he had begun to panic.

If he hadn’t been able to get his feet faced down, there was a high chance his mate and him would have drowned right there, obliterated just as Moriarty hoped but not quite in the manner anticipated. But he had, and he’d been able to wrap his own arms around John, and shove off hard from the floor, kicking frantically towards the surface. His omega had been a heavy weight in his arms, and he’d almost despaired at ever being able get him out of the pool. After too many close calls to be comfortable, he’d managed to haul his own soaking body and his mate’s out of the water, though John hadn’t been breathing when he had. Sherlock had waited until he performed CPR before he even considered letting the rising panic overtake him, relieved beyond measure when the water in his mate’s lungs had been expelled with several weak coughs. And then he’d seen John’s back.

Second degree burns from shoulder to waist, from when John had tackled him to protect him from the initial explosion and took the brunt of it for himself; a concussion from the debris that had hit him when they’d been in the pool; two fractured ribs and a broken wrist he couldn’t have sustained from the bomb which means that he fought back when he was captured. Because of course John had fought back. His John would always fight back. The anger that had filled him though at the harm that had befallen his mate had tested all of his control. It had taken every bit of himself to keep from going feral. He’d succeeded up until the beta medic had reached for John’s dildo, the one John had consented to wear whenever leaving the flat, catering to Sherlock’s more possessive side. Ferality had risen sharply and even though they were mere betas, he’d needed to stake a public claim, to show that even in his most vulnerable state, his mate chose him.

Absentmindedly, he traced the edges of the dildo's base, pleased that none of the surgeons had attempted to remove it, or if they had, had put it back where it belonged. What he’d really wanted to do since they got out of the pool was mount his omega, reaffirm their bond after a near-death, but even the alpha in him realised that should he give in to that need, he could further harm his mate. Say what he may, but his illogical side loved John as much as his logical side did.

Now though... his mate’s injuries were taken care of, he was pumped full of painkillers, and Lestrade had finally departed some minutes ago. There was no damage to any of John below the waist, and Sherlock’s adrenaline, and worse, his instincts, were still running high, not helped by the amount of other people he could smell in the air and the fact that he could no longer smell their most recent mating on his omega’s skin. He needed... He needed... He rolled off the bed and strode over to the door, locking it with a firm click.

He had never been a fan of hospital gowns, but in this event, their value was immeasurable. Now was not the time to undress completely so he simply moved the blanket below John’s arse and his hospital gown above before deactivating the fake knot and pulling the silicon free, placing it on its base on the nightstand. Settling between his mate’s parted legs, he began to lick at the furled bud, encouraging it to open and encouraging the slickness hidden inside to begin to flow. He needed to mount John, but he was never cruel enough to do it dry. It was as if his omega’s body knew that it was its mate requesting access because that bud loosened quickly, allowing his tongue to enter to lap up the sweetness inside. Sherlock closed his eyes and got comfortable, the taste of his mate on his tongue nearly as comforting as how his mate would feel around his cock shortly.

Sherlock’s cheeks were damp and his chin drenched before his instincts were satisfied with what he'd lapped up and the looseness of his mate's entrance, and he wiped his face on his sleeve as he closed the tan legs and straddled the hard thighs. His cock was aching, angry and weeping, when he finally pulled it free and he couldn’t help but give it a precursory stroke with a slick-wetted hand. Slowly, carefully, the alpha braced himself on his hands over his omega’s back before pressing inside, not stopping the smooth glide until he was buried to the hilt. After the events of the last several days, it felt like coming home. Or rather, if he believed in heaven, it would be this feeling: his mate safe under him and tight around him.

His thrusts were slow but deep as he arched over the man beneath him, careful to not let a single scrap of clothing touch the bandages across John’s back as he nuzzled his mate’s neck. The alpha would have been hard-pressed to say which he prefered: the taste of John’s slick on his tongue and the scent in his nose, or the pure, unadulterated scent of his mate’s scent gland. Either way, they were both his, both just for him, and he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

The bonding mark over John’s scent gland was untouched by fire, which he was more than relieved by. There was no telling what he might have done, either to his mate or to the one who caused such damage, should he not have been able to renew his mark. His omega was beginning to twitch underneath of him, his breath coming out in delicious little hitches and pants that told Sherlock his pleasure was being reached even if he was unconscious. Carefully, he lowered himself down to his left elbow, leaning on it so that he could work his right hand under his mate’s hips, trying to not disrupt the recovery position his doctor had placed him in.

When he finally did reach his mate’s pelvis, the cock at its apex was already fully hard and he grasped it firmly, doing his best to work his wrist in a manner that he could pleasure John while at the same time leaving him unjostled. His hips all the while kept pace, settling into the rhythm of the slowly increasing beat of John’s heart rate monitor. There was a strange satisfaction in fucking into his mate in such a matching pace that he refused to abandon it once he’d started. The passage around him was wet and so tight, so welcoming, trying to pull him back in every time he began to pull out. A sudden loneliness swept through him at the flashes of memory of John presenting to him, teasingbegging with a filthy smirk and a fire in his eyes, of blunt fingers digging scars into the delicate skin of his back when he took his mate roughly. He was thankful, at the very least, that though his mate was injured now, was unconscious now, he would live; he would eventually wake.

“Shhhh...lllll...” John hissed on an exhale, the beeping on the heart rate machine hiking slowly higher. A wash of relief and pleasure flooded him, comforted him that even unconscious, even injured, his mate still knew him. The room was silent around them, filled only with the muffled din from the hospital outside their temporary haven and the sounds of their breathing. Despite the machine's beeping, confirming John’s continued life with every quick beat, he stayed as silent as he possibly could, ears strained for the sounds of his mate’s breath and the occasional name-like hiss.

His knot was swelling but he was careful not to press any of it inside, letting the orgasm build slowly in his body. The last several days had been fairly normal in how they taxed his transport, but the last several hours had exhausted him as much physically as they had mentally, seeing his mate’s life threatened and then almost losing him because the stubborn man had tried to save his life. Not that he was ungrateful, oh no, he couldn’t be more grateful for still being alive, but if he had to chose between John’s life and his own, it would be John. It would always be John.

Pleasure was a burning fire in each vein, buzzing through his fingers and toes and his spine and his knot was nearly at pre-climax maximum size. He settled his mouth over his mate’s scent gland, over the mark he renewed weekly, if not more, and breathed out a slow “Jooohhhnnn...”

The omega’s breath hitched and the heart rate monitor beeped angrily when his heart skipped a beat and the cock in his hand tensed, the bollocks beneath the heel of his palm tightening as his mate began to come. Not pausing in his thrusts, Sherlock firmly pressed his knot into the welcoming passage and bit down as his own orgasm swept through him. The alpha’s knot swelled against the pulsating walls, each throb of the slick muscles beckoning another wave of ejaculate from him until he was dizzy with pleasure and struggling for breath around the skin in his mouth.

When the world in his eyes stopped spinning, he pulled his teeth free, licking at the mark as he rotated his hips, ensuring his knot was firmly in place. The entirety of his balance was centred on his left elbow and he was exceedingly relieved to find that he had not fallen atop his injured mate during his orgasm. Below him, John’s cheeks were flushed and his pulse still accelerated, but he was still firmly unconscious, a result of the excessive drugs in his system. Cupping his right hand to prevent the seed in his palm from slipping free, Sherlock removed his arm from around his mate’s waist, wasting no time in licking the warm release from his skin. As his eyes slid closed at the taste, another wave of his orgasm hit him, his cock throbbing and John around him clenching him in an automated biological response.

Though the heart rate monitor had steadied, the heavy pants slowing back into a deep breathing, there was a low moan from his mate as a third round of orgasms made his cock pulse again, filling his omega with his seed, his scent. At last, his knot receded and Sherlock pulled out as he reached for the dildo, pressing it back into John before any of his come leaked free. He’d discovered, somewhat on accident, that if he came inside his mate and then plugged him up, John would smell like he was in coitus until the dildo (or plug) was pulled free. And he’d also discovered, strangely enough, that alphas love the scent of both unbonded and bonded omegas, in heat or not, but they couldn’t stand the scent of an omega during intercourse unless that intercourse was with them. Ever since those particular discoveries, he’d pressured and wheedled and begged until his mate had ceded to his eccentric whims.

That first time when they’d gone out like that, John had tried to keep all evidence of the secret beneath his jeans off his face, but every once in a while, he would shift one way or another and a flush would steal across his cheeks as if his prostate had been nudged, or he would wince and shift heavily, as if being pressed from the inside too uncomfortably. Later, the doctor had informed him that even with the knot activated, if he got too used to wearing it, if his passage got too loose, it still felt like it was slipping free. Before Sherlock had been able to come up with an alternative, John had surprised him by showing him pictures of shibari, an art he knew of but had not studied. It had been a wonderful surprise to learn that many others in the past had devised ways of creating a ‘strap-on’ with rope, and he simply reverse-engineered the process to keep the silicone replica of his own cock inside his mate when they were out of the flat. Since then, the amount of attention John had attracted from other alphas had decreased by 100%. Sherlock’s possessive displays outside home had equally decreased, but only by 97%--he still liked to keep a hand at the small of his mate’s back or across his neck when the soldier allowed him, and claiming kisses while in the company of others were never remiss.

Tucking away his now-soft cock, he contemplated returning to his original seat in the hospital chair, and immediately discarded the idea. Even sitting in that chair was too far away from his mate right now and his instincts were still high from the attack and the recent mating. Now was the frustratingly difficult decision of which side of John to curl up against. At home, at familiar Baker Street, he slept on the left, keeping himself between his mate and their door, so attuned to the flat and the building that any change in atmosphere or number of occupants was easily detected. But here, there was none of that familiarity, and the realisation that he would twist his head to look at the door each time he heard or smelled someone passing by helped him decide.

Rather than risk a potential fall onto his mate if he went over the unconscious form, Sherlock rolled off the bed and walked around the end to the far side and climbed back in, this time stretching out the full length of his body along the still line of John’s and propping his head up on his hand. It was unnerving to see his soldier like this, completely still. Even when the omega slept, there was a constant movement of his chest, the flexing of his fingers, the twitching of his eyes; there was the sound of his naked skin shifting against their sheets, whimpers when he had nightmares of the war, moans when he had dreams of Sherlock. Now that he was no longer being fucked, the drugs his mate’s system ensured none of that would be forthcoming. Sherlock hated it.

He bent his head to nuzzle at the ashen hair, closing his eyes and taking the familiar scent in deep. “Wake up, John Watson,” he whispered. “Hurry back to me.”

**.oOo.**

His first memory upon waking was of the three men who'd attacked him when he'd gone for a walk, the way they'd cornered him in an empty alley. At first, he'd thought it was a mugging, but their movements had been too professional, too focused. So he hadn't bothered holding back. They might have given him a broken wrist (throbbing now) and two fractured ribs (screaming at him to get off his front), but he'd put two of them down and they hadn't gotten back up. The third had gotten a broken knee and a brick to the temple before he'd managed to get a needle into John's neck.

Then the omega shifted and the resultant flash of _numb_ blanketing his back brought his more current memories back with a snap: waking up in a literal bomber's jacket and his puppeteering for Sherlock, the two genius's chess-like talk and the criminal's insanity, _"Are you all right?!"_ and _"I'm soooo~ changeable!"_ , turning towards his mate and unbearable heat melting his skin. Fucking shit, that feeling covered near almost all of his back. Once the medication wore off... Sherlock was not going to be happy with a prolonged hospital sta--

"Sherlock!" he shouted, coming fully awake in a split second and jolting upwards to his knees; as they'd sank into the pool together, something had slammed into him and the last thing he'd seen before losing consciousness was the panic on his mate's face, an emotion that, on Sherlock, scared him more than anything else did. Hands curled around his and yanked him right back down into the chest of the fully clothed body laying beside him. In the next second, one of them released him to thread through his hair, pressing his face against a soft, warm neck, the other pulled away only to cup an arse cheek. As his body tensed for defense, his mouth opened to shout and he took a deep breath--

"I'm here, John. I'm all right. I'm here." All fight, all energy, left him like his strings had been cut and he sagged down into the calm, welcoming, _breathing_ form of his mate.

"Jesus fuck, Sherlock," he breathed into warm skin, curling his arms around his alpha, the familiar sensation of The Coat’s wool scraping his bared skin when he tightened his embrace oddly relieving. "Fuck, I’m so glad you’re okay.” The body under him stiffened and reflexively he moved to pull back only to be stopped by two long-fingered hands gripping his arse and keeping him still.

“Yes, no thanks to you,” Sherlock said, voice tight in the way that it got when he was trying to not let emotion seep through. Whether it was anger or something else, in that moment, John couldn’t tell, primarily because his own anger flared.

“Are you angry at me for that?” he snapped back, shoving at his alpha’s shoulders until he could kneel again, this time straddling Sherlock’s trouser-clad thighs and glaring down at his supine mate. The movement pulled at his still-healing back and put pressure on his cast-wrapped wrist and drew uncomfortable attention to the tightness of his bound chest. And a soreness in his arse and at his neck he hadn’t registered immediately because of their familiarity. “Did you fucking mount me when I was unconscious?” he asked incredulously. The detective, already opening his mouth to give his own retort to John’s first question, snapped his jaw shut at his second, breaking eye contact to roll his head to the side, dark curls splaying on the stark white pillow. The tension in his eyes and his mouth answered for him though.

“My mate was threatened, injured, and near death,” his alpha finally said, still refusing to look at him. “I knotted you and reaffirmed my bond bite as soon as you were freed from surgery.” John wanted to be angry. He really wanted to be angry at what sounded like an utterly selfish alpha just using a terrible situation to get a leg over. But despite the sex they had before either of them left home every day, despite the knotting dildo he would be stuffed with to keep Sherlock’s seed inside him, despite the ropes around his thighs and arse and wherever else his mate felt like that day to keep the thick silicone deep, it was always, _always_ , done with his permission. Every step of their relationship had always been up to John and John alone. His alpha to this day was still hesitant whenever he wanted affection from the omega, even going so far as to ask rather than deduce to make sure John was okay with all of it. The rare times Sherlock initiated were during his heats or when adrenaline was running high after a case, the both of them caught up in the moment, breathless and flushed and smiling. Even then, the second John made any sign that he didn’t want to continue, Sherlock would freeze and wait, or pull away entirely, eternally patient and understanding and undemanding. So for his mate to have done something like that meant that he’d been... emotional, sentimental. And to someone who valued logic and reason above most all other things, that was a compliment in and of itself.

“Just...” John sighed, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"I love you." The omega paused... and then opened his eyes as he dropped his hand. Guiless grey eyes watched him carefully, face cleared of emotion but he knew the detective was trying to suss out how upset John actually was about what he'd done. For a moment, he worried that Sherlock was just telling him what he wanted to hear, placating him with sentiment. And then he recalled what his mate had told him their first night together, curled around one another in between waves of his heat: _"I may not tell you that I love you as often as you wish to hear it, I may say it to someone else for a case, but you, John Watson, are the only person for whom I have felt this emotion, and the only for whom I wish to feel this emotion. I will voice this rarely, but trust that when I do, I have never meant something more."_

"I still mean it."

"Mean what?" John replied absently, blinking away the memory of warm words whispered against his new mark.

"What I told you the morning you allowed me the honour of becoming your alpha." He had to blink away the sudden wetness in his eyes and he laughed at the worry pinching his mate's brow.

"You are a mind reader and a romantic, Sherlock Holmes," he laughed, wincing as he leaned back down to wipe that expression away and his ribs twinged. The kiss was slow and unhurried, and a bit hesitant on his mate's half, but John was patient, starting with simple presses of lips-on-lips before easing his tongue inside and humming at the sweet, comforting taste. "How about," he breathed between kisses, "you don't be mad at me for saving you, I won't be mad at you for going to Moriarty alone," Sherlock stiffened, tongue freezing but John went on undeterred, "and I ride you into this mattress?"

Now only a certain bit of his alpha's anatomy stiffened and the omega sat back just a bit, just enough to put pressure on their slow erections. Fingers tightened on his arse, noticeably careful to go no higher lest they ruin the healing that had been started. But he didn't want to think about that now, the way his back would look once he'd grown a new layer of skin, the way Sherlock was fascinated by his bullet scar but could only be horrified by what the fire had made of him, the way--

"Yes," his mate breathed out, snapping John from his useless, self-deprecating thoughts. Pale cheeks were flushed and grey eyes dazed, cock fully erect between them and trapped under pants and trousers, and fingers fluctuating against where they held him tight but did not pull. This is what he would rather have his mind on right now.

"Yes what, Sherlock?" he asked, voice light, teasing, as he rocked just as lightly, giving them only the barest of friction to pull strings of electric pleasure from.

"Yes, _please_ ," he got back. Suddenly, he felt powerful, seeing such an alpha as his willingly reduced to this state.

"Yes please what, my alpha?" The frustrated growl that earned him made his lips twitch as he tried to repress his smile.

"Yes, John, please ride my cock onto the mattress until I knot you!" Sometimes it could be a bit of a mood killer when his genius figured out his little games, but not this time, not today. Not when sitting still for too long would get him to thinking about his newest scar or how close they'd been to death.

"You'd better pull your fake cock out of me and pull your real one out of your trousers then, hadn't you?" He couldn't help the whimper that got lodged in his throat at the feeling of the inflatable knot deflating and the silicone pulling free. Most days he honestly forgot he was wearing it because he was so used to it, unless he shifted just right and it nudged his prostate, but he never failed to miss the feeling of _full_ it gave him when Sherlock pulled it out. He blamed its homemade makeup, silicone and his alpha's come, for being able to affect him like no toy ever had or could. Either way, the emptiness never lasted long, and when a long cock pressed against the fabric of his gown between his cheeks, it was an easy assurance that this time would be no different.

The hands shifted, sliding under his hospital gown, warm skin smooth against warm skin. Fingers gripped the curve of his arse, thumbs sliding around front to stroke his hip bones for a moment as he rocked back into the hot length. His own cock was unattended, tenting his gown and creating a spot of damp against the pale fabric. John was the impatient one this time, wasting no time in getting back to his knees, Sherlock's hands keeping him steady as he reached behind himself to wrap a hand around the thick cock. The flutter of eyelashes made him smile as he slowly sunk down, relishing the slow glide of flesh filling him.

"John..." the alpha whispered, eyes closed and fingers tight by the time John came to a rest, full and breathing hard. It felt like weeks since they'd last done this, even though he knew it couldn't have been more than days.

"Sherlock," he moaned in return, his own fingers digging into his mate's chest as he gyrated easily on the cock filling him. "You feel good. You always feel so good." His breath caught as he swiveled his hips and ran his mate right into his prostate, and then did it again and again and again. "I'm sorry I can't... I can't move mo-ore," he stuttered, fixating all his attention on that bundle of nerves, not unlike how he would stimulate a clitoris to orgasm.

"Don't apologise." Sherlock's normally deep voice had darkened considerably, the low vibrations wracking his spine with shiver after shiver as he worked single-mindedly towards his orgasm. "Every time my cock hits your prostate, you tighten around me, like ripples. You're so tight, John, you always feel so good," his mate was panting, body still and shaking with the restraint of it. "No matter what I do to you, you're always so tight for me, so good for me."

His alpha's words were not helping him to slow the rise of his orgasm as he forced himself to endure the prostate massage he was forcing on himself. The pain in his wrist and ribs, the numbness in his back, all of it was being swept away from the rise of pleasure under his skin, the flood of chemicals in his bloodstream, the pressure of his mate's swelling cock. "Jesus, Sherlock," he panted. "Please, please touch me."

"I can't! I can't. Please don't make me let go, I can't let go!" Sherlock's fingers tightened even further, resisting his plea with everything he was. His head was shaking back and force and despite John being the injured one, Sherlock was the one who looked devastated. He should have been annoyed, frustrated, by the proclamation but not only was Sherlock clinging to him like he was the alpha's only lifeline, but this wasn't the only time this had happened. It hadn't taken John long to learn how overwhelmed his mate could get during sex, especially if the man was in a position where he couldn't wrap his entire being around his omega. The times where John was on top, directing pace and depth and angle, it left his genius in a sobbing, clinging, babbling mess... and the omega loved every second of it. So with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh and a smug smile, John rose up on his knees the tiniest bit to give his hips better control, balanced himself using his cast-covered hand, wrapped his free hand around his cock, and began to ride his alpha in earnest.

"John! Oh, _John!_ " That. That's what he'd been waiting for. That way Sherlock said his name that told him exactly how _wrecked_ the man was. He sped his hand up, his testicles drawing up so tightly it left him gasping for breath. He was so close, and all he needed was his alpha's knot.

"Yes, love, I'm here," he panted, as the first wave of his orgasm swept through him, ejaculate spilling onto his still-stroking fingers and out onto his mate's shirt. "Come on, love! Come for me!" He shoved his hips down as hard as he could, a brief, almost unbearable pressure before the knot popped past. "Sherlock!"

There was a wordless cry from his mate as the knot swelled, pressing against his prostate and triggering the second wave, the warmth of his genius's release filling him and doing nothing to dampen the electric waves of pleasure. If anything, it only encouraged them, making it his turn to become the sobbing, clinging, babbling mess. When the pleasure finally ebbed and he came back to himself, it was from on high, a hazy cloud of 'pleasure' and 'mate', and he collapsed on top of Sherlock's chest, the fabric of his gown edging towards 'uncomfortable' against his heated skin.

The knot was pulling just a bit uncomfortably at his insides, but he couldn’t be arsed to shift any so that it didn’t. Nor did he wish to roll to his side, or his back, the numb sensation across his back having faded, the medication having burnt off and still-healing burns twinging from his rambunctious activity. But as biology dictated, the knot would deflate, and as gravity dictated, the pale cock would slip free. By the time it started to do just that, the dildo he wore daily was already in his mate’s hand resting against the cleft of his arse.

“Must I?” he asked as Sherlock’s now-flaccid length began the slow slide free. The slow slide of the silicone froze.

“Please, John.” His secretly-romantic alpha would never pressure him, and of course the posh git was _too_ posh for something as lowborn as pleading or begging. “We are not at home and there are too many scents. You are still injured and as much as I don’t want to leave you here, I would not be surprised if Mycroft required my presence for something tedious regarding Moriarty.”

John gave another long-suffering sigh but he nodded and smiled softly. “Yes, yes you may.” Before he’d even finished speaking, he was being filled with something nearly as firm as his mate’s cock and not nearly as satisfying, but still filling nonetheless. He moaned quietly as the knot was activated and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I love you, too,” he said after the minute he needed to let his heart rate return to normal and the residual pulses of pleasure to fade, long fingers combing through his hair, calming him further. “But please, let’s leave the ropes off until I’m healed, yeah?”

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I think it’s done???~? A done pile of rubbish??????~??? It was only supposed to be smut?????????? Now it's a series?????????????????
> 
> Reblog the [thing](http://themadkatter13fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/91945470883/behind-the-curtains)! :3 Tschüß.


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